


You call it sickness, I call it love

by Sage8771



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Disturbing Themes, F/F, F/M, Kidnapping, Not Canon Compliant, Obsession, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:28:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29098059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sage8771/pseuds/Sage8771
Summary: Maybe he was mercurial. These pathetic meatbags with their weak wills and even frailer bodies. They were too stupid to save themselves, and though he craved their love, he hated them at the same time.
Relationships: The Homelander | John/Original Female Character(s), The Homelander | John/Queen Maeve
Comments: 23
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I thought I'd dip my toe into this, because I'm crazy in love with this show. I feel like this could go down a dark and disturbing path, and if you'd like to read more, please let me know!

The crowd was buzzing, high off of the thrill of seeing their heroes up close and personal. The low rumble of cheers started to grow as Queen Maeve gave the throngs of devotees a final wave, blessing them with her megawatt smile.  


As soon as her back was turned, the smile disappeared like it had been wiped clean, and she snatched a bottle of water from her lackey’s hand, downing it in under ten seconds. “Why do I always have to play clean-up?” she muttered, her shoulders stiffening when he placed a hand on the small of her back.  


“You’re my girl,” Homelander said with an icy smile, flicking his eyes towards Anna or Hannah the lackey, he could never remember because he just didn’t care enough to. “Wherever I am, there you are.”  


“Sure,” she inclined her head, the overhead light glinting off of her headband. “Just like at the Meman hostage crisis. I was there first, and…”  


Maeve trailed off as he sighed loudly, pulling her closer so that she was flush with his chest. He almost wanted her to fight him off, to cuss him out. It was a damned sight more interesting than strolling out to the stage, rattling off some boring old speech that he’d been given to memorize. All of it annoyed him. The bullshit spectacle of gladhanding and power pumping the moronic humans that they saved.   


“We’re a team,” Homelander reminded her. “We’re all being celebrated here.”  


“Right,” she put her palms against his pecs, giving him a firm push. The crowd had begun to chant his name, and her mouth tightened in disgust for a split second. “They’re waiting for you, honey.”  


“Let them wait,” he bent down, pressing his lips to hers, that sick sense of satisfaction when he felt her try to recoil from his touch. She loathed him, and he enjoyed that more than the kiss, but Vought had spent an inordinate amount of money and press to sell them as lovers, and who was he to disappoint?  


A chorus of sighs reverberated around them, so he played it up, dipping Maeve backward against her will. She was strong, but he was stronger, and it was only when she whimpered low enough for only him to hear that he let her go, wiping his mouth.   


_‘Homelander! Homelander! Homelander!’_  


Flicking his cape, he turned towards the curtain, taking the gold microphone from Ashley’s hand. She knew it was the one he preferred for these things, and when the uplifting music began, the crowd reached a fever pitch. As soon as his right boot came into sight, the cheers magnified, and he smiled graciously, clasping his hand over his heart as they poured out their auditory appreciation for him.   


“Thank you,” he said it quietly, pretending to be abashed by all of the applause. As the cheers continued, he inhaled deeply, picking out the adrenaline and arousal that seeped through the air. There were equal amounts of each between the males and females, and he fanaticized for just a split second about cutting down a swath of them with his eyes. Would they have time to fear it? Fear smelled different than the other two.   


Adrenaline burned his nose, a salty essence, not too dissimilar from sulfur, and it wasn’t to say that he disliked it. No, it was just…odd, even though he picked it up a lot. Arousal? Well, that was cloyingly sweet, obviously, the hormones wafting out like incense smoke. But fear? That was the smell that defined him. The one he’d been conditioned to like. To savor. To work from.   


Madelyn had once told him about her favorite Christmas memory growing up. A holiday spent at her grandparent’s cabin in the Catskills. She’d waxed poetic about days skating on the frozen pond and how the cold air would bite at her cheeks, and evenings sitting around the fireplace, toasting pecans and drinking hot cider with fresh cinnamon sticks.   


As he listened, head in her lap as she ran her fingers through his hair absently, she’d painted such a vivid picture that he could almost see himself in that same place, inhaling the crisp air, roasted nuts, and smoke.  


That’s how fear smelled to him, and it always made him hard. It made him excited, and he picked out one man in the crowd, focusing his gaze on him, imagining splitting him from head to toe, watching as both sides of him fell in a slow arc to the floor. He could do it, right now, and no one could stop him. No one could ever stop him.  


“Really,” he intoned, dipping his head in mocking respect. “You’re the _real_ heroes.”  


The crowd ate it up like they always did, and he grinned at their stupidity. Yet, he loved the adoration. He thrived on it. The kill, the destruction, and the total love. It was a heady mixture, a drug that nothing could match, aside from Compound-V.   


“The world,” he began when the noise finally ceased, raising his left hand towards the sky above them, “is a beautiful place. I think we can all agree on that, right?”  


They clapped and whistled, calling out a few ‘I love yous’ to him as he strolled along the edge of the stage, touching outstretched hands, drawing out the moment.   


“It’s filled with poetry and prose, architecture that defies imagination. The world has brought us to the stars and beyond, and it’s connected us to each other. To different cultures and beliefs. Different views. But the most wonderful thing about life is human resilience. The ability to wade through the ugly and hard, and come out of it with strength and love.”  


Less than three minutes to memorize the speech Madeleine had written for him, and he decided to go off-book, bowing his head in manufactured sadness.   


“When situations that occur, like what happened at Meman Bank,” Homelander spoke in a low voice, infusing it with regret, ignoring Ashley’s frantic wave in his peripheral vision, “it’s easy to look at myself or Queen Maeve and hold us responsible for ending the brutal siege. We’re strong, we’re powerful, and we can withstand physically what no one else in the world can. But you?”  


You could hear a pin drop in the auditorium, the collective survivors of the bank heist giving him their rapt attention, and he drank in the absolute attention that was thrown at him. They absolutely adored him, and he cocked his head to the side, sweeping his arm out as if welcoming him into his embrace.  


“ _You_ are so much stronger. You looked death in the eye and you survived. You held onto hope. You held out for us, and that is what a true hero does. They refuse to give up, to give in to the bad. And today…” he paused, wiping away a non-existent tear from the corner of his eye, “I salute you. I celebrate you.”  


And…scene. He stood tall and proud as the Meman survivors cried, cheered, and just generally poured their hearts and souls into a cacophony of love, sending it through the air, and as he turned to artificially get himself together, he saw Maeve in the wings, looking like she just swallowed a fly. He shot her a smirk, tossing the microphone in her general direction so that he could hover above the stage, arms akimbo like Jesus Christ himself.  


When he floated down to the front row, at least a dozen people swarmed him until security forced them to a more orderly 1-foot distance.

* * *

Mercurial. Madelyn had referred to him as mercurial very early on in their partnership. Of course, she didn’t know that he knew that since he was spying on her through the wall of her office. He’d heard a lot of things that he wasn’t supposed to, and it was all stored in his head, to be brought up and used to his advantage when he needed it.  


“You are a gift from God,” the older woman sniffled, wiping her runny nose and touching his bicep with it as he scowled at the top of her head. Ashley was frantically using her index fingers in a ‘smile’ gesture behind the old bag, and he let his eyes flash pink for a split second, scaring the shit out of her before patting the snotty acolyte on his shoulder, offering her a brief hug. “I was so scared I’d never see my grandchildren again, but then you showed up,” she sobbed, and he bit back a groan of annoyance.  


Maybe he _was_ mercurial. These pathetic meatbags with their weak wills and even frailer bodies. They were too stupid to save themselves, and though he craved their love, he hated them at the same time. And this woman, old enough to be his own grandmother, was drenched in the sweet scent of arousal, and it was all he could do not to shove her away so roughly that she’d fly across the room and hit the wall, breaking her gross body into pieces.  


“It’s my pleasure, ma’am,” he said, compartmentalizing the disgust and adopting his savior persona, eyeing the remaining line of survivors that had paid an arm and a leg for a personal meet and greet with the Seven. “You’re safe, now. Here,” he guided her towards Ashley, giving her arm a soft squeeze, “Ashley is going to get you some autographs and souvenirs for your grandchildren.”  


The old woman started to sob again, and Ashley avoided his gaze as she led the woman away. The process repeated itself for over an hour, and he was on the verge of fulfilling his fantasy of wiping each and every one of them off the face of the earth when he gave them a final wave, launching himself into the sky to their cheers.  


Blending into the clouds, he floated lazily above the city, preferring to watch from above. Homelander hated them, those little ants that drove to work every day, preoccupied with their husbands and wives and kids. Worrying about how they were going to pay their bills, or if their favorite sports team was going to win the next game. Their lives were stagnant and boring, and they only cared about him when they needed him. He could kill any one of them from up here, just by his eyes, and he actually swooped down on a group walking along the edge of Central Park, laughing and talking animatedly, following them as they headed towards the reservoir.   


He could see it in his head, just scooping them up and breaking their necks and dropping them into the water. No one would ever know it was him. He could do it in under five seconds. But then one of them glanced up, and he shot away, hearing the hat-wearing human exclaim to the group.   


“Holy shit! Was that Homelander?”  


Landing on his private balcony at Vought Tower, he opened the bulletproof door, entering his private apartment, smoothing his mussed hair back, and going straight to the fridge for a bottle of water. The liquid was cool, soothing his dry throat, and he set it down when it was halfway drained, walking leisurely into the bedroom. Everything was in its place, so he went into the closet, moving his clothes aside, revealing two golfball-sized holes in the steel, ones that he’d made himself.   


Feeling for the button that was flush with the white steel, he pressed it, releasing the springs that kept the door closed. Inside the lightless room were his most precious possessions. The baby blanket that he’d been swaddled in when he was plucked out of the hospital and taken to Vought Laboratories to be molded and shaped into the perfect superhero. The tortoiseshell comb from his first female caregiver, the one whose spine he’d accidentally shattered. The one and only Christmas card that he’d ever received from Vogelbaum.   


Glancing at the floor, his mouth tightened as he saw that the sandwich was uneaten, and the water had barely been touched. Bending at the waist, he scooped her up, his only other precious possession, carrying her limp form through the closet, the bedroom, and into the bathroom, tapping her cheek lightly to get her to wake up.  


As her eyelids fluttered, she focused on his unhappy face, the air filling with the sweet tang of lilac and the sound of her blood pumping erratically through her veins. She couldn’t hear it, but he could, and he inhaled deeply, sucking the smell of her fear deep into his lungs. Unlike everyone else, her biological responses to him, whether it was fear, hatred, adrenaline, or arousal-and there was sometimes arousal-all smelled delicious and like sweet flowers in springtime.   


“Why didn’t you eat?”  


“I…wasn’t hungry,” she breathed, and he set her down on the white stone floor, running his finger across her bare collarbone, entranced at the way her skin formed goosebumps. She fought the urge to recoil, and he slid the straps of her tank top down her arms, jerking his head towards the huge bathtub.   


“Let’s get cleaned up, and then we’ll eat together.”  


She nodded once, turning away from him to start the water, and he stripped off his uniform, unable to stop the erection that formed when she began to remove her own clothes with shaking hands.   


Christ, he had to have her soon. If she wasn’t going to give into him, then he’d just take it, and he stepped into the water, watching with half-lidded eyes as she joined him, resting across from him with arms wrapped around her knees.   


“Did you miss me, pet?”  


She hesitated for only a fraction of a second, murmuring a soft ‘yes’, and he snagged her left ankle under the water, pulling her between his legs. She whimpered quietly, but she melted against his chest, and he finally relaxed, bathed in the scent of lilac. 


	2. Chapter 2

_Why me?_  


Julie had a lot of time to ask herself that question over and over the past two weeks. She wasn’t out of this world beautiful like a supe. Like Queen Maeve or Starlight. She wasn’t even normal human stunning. Not overly tall or blessed with refined features. She was simply average. In height, in weight, even in intelligence if she was honest with herself.   


There was nothing extraordinary enough about her to pique anyone’s interest, let alone the most famous and beloved man in the universe. All she’d done was have the unfortunate luck to be in the Meman building when all hell broke loose.   


Taking the day off from her shitty job at the museum snack bar to clean out her Uncle Cy’s safe deposit box and close out his accounts was supposed to be uneventful. Cy had been her last remaining family, and she’d been his, so when he’d passed, she’d gotten the call from Camelot Nursing Home, informing her that she needed to claim the body and settle his affairs. She’d had to call a funeral home, meet with the Medicaid and Social Security office and go through his papers, and finally, when she was about mentally shot, head to the bank to finish up.  


Jerome Felger, as his card said, was escorting her to the safe deposit room down on the lower level when the building shook, like the tremors from a mild earthquake. He and Julie had glanced at each other as if confirming that they both felt it, but when nothing else happened, they continued down the hall to a large metal door. One of those circular ones that you’d see in old movies.  


It was open already, and she’d found the area vaguely claustrophobic, with the lack of fresh air and no natural light. She wasn’t one for enclosed spaces, and she stood as close to the door as possible while he searched for the correct box. The room was large and square, just over twenty-five feet in length and width if she had to guess, and there were deposit boxes of various shapes and sizes. They’d been added onto over the years. Some were shiny and metal, and others looked dull, made of brass she thought.   


Cy had one of the brass ones, and Jerome beckoned her over, showing her where to put the key. He offered to carry it over to the marble table in the center of the room, but it wasn’t heavy, so she brought it over herself.  


“I’ll give you a moment,” he told her, gliding out of the room, leaving her alone with the contents of a relative that she hadn’t seen in ten years. Uncle Cy was always just a man that would pop in and out of her life every few years. He’d blow into town to see her dad, staying on the couch for a couple of days, and then he’d be gone again. She’d assumed as a child that he was a hobo, one of those guys that drifted from one place to another. When she’d asked her dad, he laughed and told her no, that he worked for the government.   


It was all very secretive to her, but when her dad passed away, Cy reappeared at the funeral, looking nothing like the affable uncle that she remembered growing up. She was greeting friends of her dad’s when he came in using a walker. She didn’t recognize him at first, wondering who the hell he was. Most of her dad’s buddies were in their early sixties and in pretty good shape, but this guy had hair as white as snow and shuffled along with a hunched back and gnarled fingers.   


When he reached the casket, he lifted his head, and she gasped, seeing the striking green eyes that used to wink at her in merriment.   


“Uncle Cy?”  


Five years younger than her father, he now looked at least twice as old as his big brother, and she rushed forward to hug him. “Hey, Jellybean,” he greeted her, putting his papery lips to her cheek. “Let’s catch up after.”  


He limped over to the chair closest to his brother’s casket, and Julie turned her attention back to the mourners, albeit with her mind more focused on Cy. The last time she’d seen him, maybe two years prior, he’d been fine. He looked tired and cautious, but he certainly had looked his age. Now, it was like he’d been sapped of at least thirty years of life, and she kept glancing over at him. Cy was watching her dad sadly, and she just wanted to know what was happening.  


By the time the funeral was over, she felt mentally drained. Her father had been sick for a long time, the cancer eating him from the inside out. She felt a curious relief that he was finally at peace, but it didn’t take away the fact that outside of Uncle Cy, she was alone. Her mom had died long before she could ever remember her, just pictures on a shelf that she had no emotional connection to. It was her dad that had raised her, loved her, and now he was gone. Julie was too old to consider herself an orphan, but that’s what she felt like.   


Slipping off her heels, she limped over to where Cy was still seated, and they watched as the funeral director closed the casket, leaving them alone for a few moments.   


“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Cy told her, taking her hand in his gnarled one. “Chuck was a good man. A good father, and a very wonderful brother.”  


“Cy, what the hell has happened to you? I mean…” Julie trailed off, feeling like an ass for being so shocked at his appearance, but seriously?  


“I…tried some medical experiments that I shouldn’t have,” he said, avoiding her gaze to stare at the lacquered coffin. “Some things that I thought would make me healthier, and it had the opposite effect, Jellybean.”  


“What? How does that even work? That makes no sense. Uncle Cy, who did this to you?”  


Julie physically turned his face towards her, an uncomfortable feeling settling in her gut at the pained look in his eyes. There was also fear there, and she leaned closer as he started to hyperventilate.   


“Cy?”  


“I can’t tell you,” his voice was choked, resting his forehead on her shoulder. “I shouldn’t even be here. I can’t ever see you again.”  


What in the hell was going on? All she could do was hug him as tight as she dared, an impending feeling of dread washing over her. Who in the world could he have gone to for whatever treatment he was talking about? Nothing about this was making any sense. There was no doctor or company that she could think of that would be able to alter someone’s body so completely.  


With a shaky breath, he stood up, clutching his walker, and he made his way over to the casket, resting his hand on top. Julie sat there in a stupor, not really seeing anything. Too many questions were cycling through her head, and she wondered if there was anyone she could call to try to help him.  


As she opened her mouth to ask him to give her some sort of hint as to who she could go to, two men in scrubs came through the open door, and Cy stiffened when he turned around.  


“Mister Johnson, we’ve been looking for you.”  


Cy shot Julie a warning look, and she clamped her lips together in confusion. Their last name wasn’t Johnson, so why were they addressing him as such?  


“I just came to say goodbye to an old friend,” he said, starting towards them. He stopped in front of her, patting her arm. “I’m sorry for your loss, young lady.”  


As he moved away, a small, folded up piece of paper fluttered into her lap, and she covered it, watching as he was taken by each arm and escorted out.

  


She was holding the paper in her hand in the bank, rereading it for perhaps the thousandth time since that day.   


_‘Meman Bank. Box 142. Open after my death.’_

She’d called around fruitlessly after he’d left, trying every nursing home in the tri-state area looking for him, but she’d never found him. It was the one great mystery in her otherwise boring life, and now, she was finally honoring his last wish.  


The green top of the box was rusty, and she set down the key and note, prying the bent top with her finger. It took two tries before she could wrench it open, and she held her breath as she peered inside. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting. Maybe a treasure map or something moronic like that, but it was pretty normal. A copy of Cy’s birth certificate was sitting on top, along with a Silver Star medal, still hanging from the ribbon. Julie had never known that he’d received it since he never talked about his work. For all she knew, he was some sort of super-spy.  


Underneath that were some stock certificates, and she set those to the side to research later, still looking for something…big.  


Pictures of Cy and her dad were scattered, and she started to feel a little frustrated when she came upon a manilla envelope marked ‘Personal’. Could this be what he wanted her to see?  


She’d never know because the bank shook so hard that she tumbled to the floor and the box went flying. Stunned, she tried to make sense of what was happening, and little bits of dust poured out from the ceiling. Jerome came running in, helping her to her feet, and he was panting.  


“We’ve been breached.”  


“Huh?”  


He shut the deposit box, shoving it back into its spot as Julie followed behind him, protesting. “Hey, that’s my stuff.”  


“We have to go,” he brushed her off, taking her elbow and guiding her out of the vault. From the ceiling, they could hear vague shouts and screams, muted by the thick floors. “The whole bank is in lockdown.”  


Jerome physically dragged her down the hall, shoving her to the right. At the end of the passage was a dim, red exit sign, and she felt like her legs were going to give out under her. They passed several closed doors on the way to the other end, and muffled booms made her duck unnecessarily since they were above them, but it was terrifying.   


“Move,” he pushed her forward, and Julie stumbled, landing on her knees on the hard marble floor. Her purse went flying ahead of her, and Jerome left her there. He left her. Paralyzed with terror, she watched as he ran down the hall, and just when he reached the metal door, it flew open. A man in black fatigues and a ski mask aimed a gun and fired. Jerome rocked backward, hitting the floor with a thud and then a crack when his head slammed down.  


Julie was still on her hands and knees as the man in black kicked his body to the side, moving at a steady pace down the hallway towards her. She stared at him blankly, still trying to process what was happening. There was a dead man ten feet ahead of her and a fucking sniper or something heading right towards her.   


_Run, you idiot!_  


Scrabbling backward, she tried to keep some distance between herself and the murderer, but he advanced on her, grabbing her by the hair and hauling her upright. A strangled scream bubbled up in her throat, but the stranger punched her in the stomach, and she doubled over immediately. The pain throbbed in her gut, and Julie retched, trying not to vomit.   


The stranger didn’t seem to care. He just hefted her over his shoulder while she was out of commission, carrying her back down the hall and up the steps towards the chaos. Dizzy with pain and unable to take a breath, she was dropped on her ass in the middle of the bank with at least two dozen other people, all of whom were whimpering and afraid.  


She just watched a man die. Dead. Deader than dead, and Julie stared at the floor as men shouted in a foreign language. As they moved in sync throughout the bank, she felt warmth spread across her backside, and she looked down to see if she was bleeding. Maybe she’d taken a bullet, too. But it was urine. The man curled up in the fetal position had pissed himself, and she scooted away from him towards the security guard that was to her left.  


Meman Bank was one of those old institutions that had been around forever. What it could possibly contain to warrant a major robbery was beyond her, but two of the masked men were pointing at the basement where she’d just been, and they forcefully dragged one of the tellers kicking and screaming towards the steps, shouting at her in whatever language they were speaking.   


Julie had only been in the safe deposit room, but there were at least four other hallways down there, so maybe there was money? Jewels or something?  


Whatever they wanted, she hoped to God that they’d get it and leave as soon as possible before she or someone else sneezed wrong and started a bloodbath. As it was, the guard was holding something that looked like a garage door opener. He kept pressing it discreetly, keeping it flush with his thigh, and she tried not to keep staring at it. Hopefully, he was alerting the police.  


Time passed slowly as they sat there with gunmen prowling around the small group of hostages. Any second, one of them could wipe them out of existence. Just snuff out their lives with a single bullet, and she came to some sad epiphanies about her life. Specifically, that she’d done nothing with it.   


Working at a dead-end job after dropping out of school, she’d been floating along in apathy after her dad died. A series of short relationships that went nowhere. Julie had no plans for her future, no goals that she’d wanted to accomplish, and now, she probably would just end up an obituary in the paper. One of those sad little blurbs, because other than a few casual friends, she didn’t have anyone in her life.   


_If I live, shit’s going to change._  


Easy to say, and much harder to put into action, but she didn’t want to be a blurb. She wanted people to remember her.  


She was startled out of her thoughts when another thundering roar shook the building from the top down. Julie hit the floor, smacking her chin as she covered her head. Glass rained down, making a tinkling sound as it landed all around the bank. People were screaming and crying, and she was one of them, thinking that someone had just decided to bomb everyone out of existence.  


Men were firing above their heads, and the air filled with gun smoke and iron. Julie tried to crawl further into the shrinking mass of bodies, but she was once again yanked to her feet by her hair, yelping. She wasn’t the only one, as every intruder that was still standing took a human shield, and she found herself staring into the eyes of the one and only Queen Maeve.  


With her feet planted and her hands on her hips, Maeve was completely nonchalant, assessing the situation around her. Little bits of glass were still in her hair, and she seemed to do a quick count of both hostages and hostiles. Never once making concrete eye contact with Julie or any other terrified person, she simply began speaking whatever foreign language the men in black were. Julie couldn’t even fathom a guess, too focused on the gun that was pressed against her neck.   


Her life hinged upon whatever was going to happen next, and she sort of zoned out. It wasn’t that she wanted to, her brain just kind of said ‘fuck this, I’m out’ and turned itself off. Looking back, there were sort of fractured images that lodged themselves inside her.  


The green pens scattered on the floor. The drops of blood that formed a perfect circle. A shard of glass that was stuck in Maeve’s headband, glinting like a diamond. The flash of red that shot so close to her head that it singed her hair, and before everything went black, the bluest pair of eyes she’d ever seen, chasing her into the abyss.  


How was she to know they belonged to someone even madder than the man holding a gun to her?  
  
  
  



	3. Aftermath

  
“Miss?”  


Julie managed to tear her eyes away from the spatter of blood that trailed down her sleeve, glancing into the face of one of the paramedics. He was squatting down next to her on the floor where she’d woken, propped up along the wall of the deposit slips. She, along with everyone else that had been grouped in the middle of the bank was being seen by medical personnel and questioned by the police, and all she wanted to do was go home.  


“Can you tell me your name?” the medic asked with a pen poised above his clipboard.  


“Julie Gardner.”  


“Age?”  


“Thirty-two- no, thirty-three,” she corrected. “I had a birthday last month.”  


It was hard to think clearly with the cries and whimpers that were bouncing off of the walls, and she did her best to answer the rest of his questions, letting her legs flop down when he started to look her over. Plus, she thought she might’ve hit her head on the marble floor when she passed out. Everything was just a hair too bright, like the contrast on an old television.  


Around her, several more first responders were tending to higher critical cases, and police officers were assisting the coroner with the bodies of the dead terrorists. Terrorists? Would they be considered terrorists? They did sweep in and scare the shit out of an entire group of people, so she figured it was accurate.   


The fellow stuck with her shined a penlight into her eyes, watching carefully as she tracked the slow movement of his index finger, and then he had her sit up to listen to her chest. After that, he used a nimble touch to feel the back of her skull, and she winced when he found a sore spot. “Headache?” he asked, and Julie nodded. “I don’t think you have a concussion, just a goose egg, but you’ll want to go to the hospital to rule it out.”  


Swing and a miss, buddy. No insurance meant no fancy hospital check-up for her. Medic guy’s exam was going to have to suffice, and after checking her extremities, he scribbled down a few more notes on his paper, tearing off the top copy and placing it on her lap. “Give this to the doctors. Good luck, miss.”  


He was forgotten as soon as he left her eyesight, and Julie crumpled the paper in her fist, noticing for the first time that there was a pool of blood near her right shoe. Was it hers, or one of the killers’? And did anyone find Jerome downstairs? She wondered if he was married or had kids. Hopefully not. The memory of him just up and leaving her wasn’t even bothering her anymore. Who's to say she wouldn’t have done the same to save her own skin?  


Deep down, she knew she probably wouldn’t have. It just wasn’t in her nature. Still, she couldn’t hate the poor guy. He was gone and she was here, struggling to come to terms with the fact that she’d been smack-dab in the center of a violent act. It’s one of those things that you never think would happen to you, until it does. She’d seen more than her fair share of news stories, clips that played out exactly like today had, with broken people and broken glass.  


_Homelander almost shot your face off._  


When she was a child, her dad used to get her out of the city every once in a while to spend some quality time in the great outdoors and to keep her from being one of those urban ragamuffins that had never learned to fish, or even spend a significant portion of their youth walking barefoot on grass. For at least one week every summer, he’d rent a car and pack her up, driving upstate to some town like Prattsville, or such.   


The vacation never really began in her eyes until he made his first roadkill joke, and she murmured it to herself, running her fingers through the damaged bits of hair near her cheek.   


“I’ll take mine well-done, garcon.”  


“Beg pardon?”  


“Huh?” her head flew up to see a guy with a rotund belly, thinning hair, and pencil mustache staring down at her. He was wearing an FBI jacket with worn-out loafers and gray pants, and Julie shifted to her side to relieve some of the pressure on her spine. “Oh, nothing.”  


“I’m Agent Larkin,” he introduced himself, extending his hand. She went to shake it, but he pulled her to her feet, steadying her when she pitched forward. “You feel up to giving your statement now?”  


“Yes, please.”  


Larkin’s lips thinned out as he looked her up and down, gesturing to a makeshift interview room that had been set up in the branch manager’s office. Julie trailed behind him, nearly coming to a complete stop when she realized that Queen Maeve and Homelander were still there. She’d assumed they’d cut and run after dispatching the threat, but nope. They were surrounded by lawmen and hostages alike, accepting congratulations and possibly some of the women’s firstborns. Homelander’s back was to her, but all she could think about was the fact that if he had let his laser eyes drive a quarter of an inch, she’d be dead right now.  


_Snap, crackle, pop._   


When she reached his right shoulder, she felt, rather than saw his head turn to look at her, and she quickened her pace, exhaling soundly when they made it to the interview room. Unlike seemingly everyone else there, she had no desire to talk to the man. Lakin took the chair behind the desk, indicating that she could take either of the other spots. A breeze was blowing through the broken window, and she patted the chair before plopping down, making sure she didn’t sit on any broken glass.  


“So…” Larkin opened a fresh ledger pad, touching the ball-point pen to his tongue before placing it on the paper. “Walk me through what happened today from your perspective.”  


“Well, I don’t really know what happened here. I went downstairs to get into a safe deposit box.”  


“Okay, so start there.”  


Not much for bedside manner, this guy.   


“Um, so, I got here about…three, I guess,” Julie stared at the handful of hairs that were blowing unimpeded on the top of Larkin’s head, still feeling like she was being studied from outside. “Jerome Felger, one of the accounts managers, signed me in and escorted me down to the lower level. I came in to clean out my uncle’s box and settle his affairs. He passed about a week ago.”  


“Mmmhmm.”  


“While we were heading to the vault, we felt a little tremor,” she continued, even though Larkin didn’t bother to look up. “It felt like a minor earthquake or something, but nothing happened, so we went in. Jerome got me my uncle’s box and then stepped out so I could have a little privacy.”  


“And then what happened?”  


“I guess about…ten minutes later was when the big explosion happened. It, uh, knocked me to the ground, and Jerome came running in. He said that the bank had been breached.”  


“Breached?” Larkin finally looked up, and she nodded. “He used that specific word?”  


Julie nodded again, and they sat in silence for a few minutes as he scribbled furiously on the paper. She wasn’t sure why the word was so important, but at this stage, she didn’t really care. She just wanted to go home.  


As she was counting her breaths, someone knocked on the door frame, breaking the silence. Julie turned her head to see who it was, and she felt her heart plummet to her feet when Maeve glided in with a grace that no other human on earth could match.  


“Ma’am,” Larkin got to his feet, and Maeve touched her lightly on the shoulder as she passed by. The word was loaded with sarcasm, and Julie shrank further into her seat. Larkin clearly didn’t like supes, or at least this one in particular, and Maeve shook his hand. The agent winced at the amount of pressure used, but otherwise didn’t react, and Maeve gestured for him to continue.   


“So, after this Jerome Felger came in to tell you that the bank was breached,” Larkin focused on his notes, “what happened next?”  


“Do I really need to relive this?”   


“Yes,” he was blunt, and Julie felt a surge of anger at his dismissive tone. He may be used to shit like this, but she wasn’t, and her words had bite to them when she replied.  


“He dragged me down the hall because he said we had to get the fuck out of here,” she said through clenched teeth, ignoring the way that Maeve smiled behind Larkin’s head. “Only I tripped and fell and he left me to try to get away. My shit went flying, and I watched as he ran towards the downstairs exit, except there was a guy in black fatigues coming through the door. He blew a hole in Jerome, who hit the ground, dead I’m guessing.”  


“Miss Gardner-“  


“Then the asshole rolled up on me, punched me in the gut, yanked me up by the hair, and carried me up here. I sat with a group of other terrified people, marinating in some poor man’s piss until Queen Maeve burst through the ceiling. Now you know everything. Can I go?’  


A strong gust of wind blew through, sending Larkin’s hairs into a happy little jig, and Maeve’s face softened slightly. Julie began to shiver, clutching her arms around her torso, unable to look away from the other woman.  


“Thank you,” she whispered. It was all she could get out.  


“Agent, I think she’s been through enough today,” Maeve straightened up, placing her hands on her hips. Larkin’s face turned a light shade of pink, and he reached down to the ground, producing her purse. In all of the trauma, she’d completely forgotten about it, and he set it on the edge of the desk.   


“My office will be in contact,” he said. “One of our officers will drive you to the hospital.”  


“Can I…never mind,” Julie shrugged, getting to her feet. The whole damned bank was a crime scene, so there was no way she was going to be able to get Uncle Cy’s personals. Turning towards the door, she took two steps before Maeve called out to her, freezing her in her tracks.  


“Miss Garner?”  


Julie turned to see that she was no longer smiling. In fact, she looked downright grim.  


“Stay safe.”  


* * *

  


A half-hour later, she was sitting in the back of a squad car on a towel, since her ass smelled like someone else's dried urine, and she leaned her pounding head on the window. Against all better judgment, she’d refused medical care, insisting that she just wanted to go home.  


In her mind, there were no medicines that could do what a hot shower would, and when Officer Jones pulled up in front of the Happy Time Laundromat, she waited semi-patiently for him to get out and set her free.   


“Is this the right address?”  


“Yep,” she assured him, pointing to the third floor, where a row of windows were cheerily decorated with white curtains. “That’s my apartment.”  


Officer Jones, he of the average name and stunningly green eyes, took her by the elbow and escorted her through the nondescript red outer door, after she managed to get it unlocked. Home wasn’t fancy, but it was cheap and Mr. Chang, the owner of the Happy Time Laundromat let her wash her clothes for free. He lived alone on the second floor, and she had the third. The roof access was shared between the two, and at least twice a week, they’d meet up there for dinner. It was her own little slice of heaven in the city.   


Mr. Chang had one of the prettiest gardens in all of New York on the roof. Orchids of every color, miniature fruit trees, and grassy mats that were as soft as any spot in Central Park. Once she got cleaned up, it would be the perfect place to cocoon herself to wait for the mental breakdown that was surely on its way.   


Her stomach was throbbing by the time they made it up to the third floor, and Julie opened her door, ready to collapse onto her rug. “Thank you, Officer.”  


“Call me Jason,” he poked his head through the door, giving the living room a quick once over. Everything in her little abode seemed to pass muster, so he fished out a card, handing it to her. “If you need anything, please call.”  


Once he was gone, Julie shut and bolted the door, letting her purse drop to the tiled floor. Never in her life did she think she’d be so thrilled to see Mount Song. Mr. Chang’s mother used to live here, and the wall had a mural of the mountain just above her couch. Painted in pale grays and browns, the scape was surrounded by Chinese lanterns and writing, of which her landlord had never explained to her. All he’d asked when she moved in was that she not paint over it, and given how cheap the rent was, she’d readily agreed.  


It felt safe to her, right then. She was hidden in this room, away from crazy terrorists and super strong heroes, and she undressed as she walked to the bathroom, tossing her clothes into the hamper before fishing out her shirt and just pitching it. Mr. Chang could probably get the blood out, but she doubted she’d ever wear it again. Every time she looked at it, she’d just see the red dots, anyway.   


“Jesus.”  


The face staring back at her was ghastly. Her skin was the color of wet chalk, and the whites of her eyes were criss-crossed with red veins. So pale, it was hard to tell where her skin ended and her lips began. And her hair. It was coated with blood and there was a four-inch chunk missing just past her ear. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think she just walked away from a car accident or something.  


Close enough, she thought, starting the shower. Once she was inside, she turned her brain to neutral, letting it rev itself as she focused on the task of cleaning her body and head. Her dad’s morbid sense of humor bubbled up out of nowhere, and she started to sing as she worked the shampoo into a lather.  


“I’m gonna wash that man right outta my hair. Oh yes, an actual man right outta my hair,” Julie snorted to herself. “So long, Hans. Happy trails, Ivan.”  


“Heh.”  


Her eyes snapped open at the sound, and she wiped the bubbles from her face. Someone had just _laughed_.  


Instinct won out over common sense, and she whipped the shower curtain open with her fist raised, but the bathroom was empty. Her towel had fallen from the hook and was in a ball on the floor, but she was alone in the room. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone had just been right there, and it lit a fire under her ass to finish as quickly as possible.   


“Don’t lose your shit now. Not till you’ve had a good night’s sleep.”  


Wrapped in her robe, she rifled through her drawer, putting on a pair of pajamas and quickly combing out her wet hair. The sun had finally gone down, leaving her ambivalent about going to the roof, and she crawled into bed instead, laying flat on her back. There were still a ton of people out on the street below, and the sounds of conversations in Chinese floated up through her window. It was like white noise to her, and she laid in her dark bedroom, staring out at the streetlight until her eyes drifted shut.  


Her last coherent thought was absurd, but it burrowed into her brain, anyway.   


_Maybe the men in black were there about Uncle Cy._


End file.
